Her Brother's Keeper
by ProfessorSpork
Summary: A CatCo Magazine exclusive by Kara Danvers, photos by James Olsen. / "Now," Lena says, "What can I do for you?" Anyone who has met Lena is familiar with these words. They are her go-to greeting; practiced, polite, and most importantly, meant in earnest. A thesis statement: Lena Luthor wants to help.
1. Chapter 1

[NOTES: Okay, so I swear to god, this started out just as a way for me to work out my frustrations with feeling like I'm on call for work 24/7 through Lena Luthor. And then it slowly spiraled out of control and now it's filled with easter eggs like actual comic book villain Dana Dearden and fun facts about Tim McVeigh that no one but me cares to know and this is where we are now.

Huge debts of gratitude go to AO3 users guileheroine (writer of Inside the Minds of Republic City's Most Influential) and copperbadge (of the MCU's Magazineverse). Both of those stories were massive inspirations for this. Shout out as well to wtfoctagon, for coming up with the last name Hoang for Jess the Receptionist.]

* * *

 **Her Brother's Keeper**

A CatCo Magazine exclusive by Kara Danvers

Photos by James Olsen

* * *

IT IS 9:07 PM on a Thursday night, and Lena Luthor is answering e-mails.

"I promise I'll be with you in just a moment," Ms. Luthor says, before adding—as though she can read my shorthand as I take notes—"and please, I think we'll all be more comfortable if you just call me Lena."

The comment, like Ms. Luthor herself (" _Lena!_ " she insists with a laugh when I read a quote back to her for clarity), can be read on multiple levels. There is, of course, the obvious: since her brother Lex's conviction and imprisonment, Lena has done much to separate herself from the Luthor surname—starting with rebranding the family company to 'L-Corp' last year, and ending with her choice to take the stand against her mother, Lillian Luthor, in the Project Cadmus criminal trials this past week.

But perhaps the first-name-only policy is just as much for Lena's comfort as it is for the public's. Adopted at the age of four, Lena does not hold many memories of her birth parents—but is now left responsible for the legacy of a family of which she did not always feel she was truly a part of. Even before their political and moral views splintered irrevocably, Lena says she struggled to "be a Luthor."

And finally, there is history here. This is not my first interview with Lena; we've been professionally acquainted ever since her arrival in National City. But while Lena has always made time to give statements or answer questions, she has famously never conceded to an in-depth profile… until now. Following her testimony on Monday, I reached out to her off the record, as a friend—only to find myself invited to have unrestricted press access to her for the remainder of the week.

Perhaps predictably, Lena offering up her time does not actually guarantee she has any free to give. Between her appearances in court, the continuing operation of her company, and the constant queries from the media, there is little that _doesn't_ require Lena's attention these days. It is not until late in the evening that I gain her undivided focus.

"Now," Lena says, physically pushing her keyboard away on her desk, as though trying to distance herself from the temptation to keep working. "What can I do for you?"

Anyone who has met Lena is familiar with these words. They are her go-to greeting; practiced, polite, and most importantly, meant in earnest. A thesis statement: Lena Luthor wants to help.

"I don't know that I've ever thought of it that way," she says when I point this out. "I actually started saying it in boarding school, when I was thrown in with the children of my parents' friends. It became clear early on that most people who interacted with me didn't want to get to know me beyond the Luthor name—but rather, that they wanted something from me. Asking them what it was, up front, seemed an efficient way to cut to the chase."

If this seems a paranoid way of thinking, consider her classmates. Also in Lena's year were Veronica Sinclair, who was recently arrested for running an illegal alien fighting ring under the alias 'Roulette'—though the charges were later dropped—and Dana Dearden, who is awaiting parole after being convicted for stalking James Olsen (then Daily Planet photographer and current acting Editor in Chief of CatCo Magazine) in an attempt to get to Superman.

Whether you'd call her attitude caution or cynicism, there is no arguing with the results. Lena graduated at the top of her class in every academic institution she's attended, only to go on to become the mind behind some of L-Corp's most popular, ubiquitous products. Even in the midst of assassination attempts and her family's trouble with the law, since taking over L-Corp she's experienced a meteoric rise—eclipsing Maxwell Lord as the face of the National City tech industry.

"Would you believe me if I said I never intended to have a high profile when I moved here?" Lena asks. "Leaving Metropolis was a matter of necessity, but I had actually hoped to perform most of L-Corp's rehabilitation out of the limelight. Perhaps that was naïve of me; my family has never been very good at staying out of the news. For better or worse."

And things have been better. Though it is hard to remember now, the Luthor name was not always synonymous with crime and xenophobia. For many years, they were the American elite—notable for their brilliance, which set them apart from many of their 'famous for being famous' counterparts. Indeed, for some time, the Luthors were actually the literal poster children for acceptance, making headlines when Lex and Lena posed for a #NoH8 campaign shoot together (pictured, left) when Lena came out in 2010. Even as recently as two years ago, there had been favorable buzz that Lex might run for President.

Does Lena hope to return her surname to that former esteem?

"I don't think there's such a thing as going back—but I'd like to think that we can move forward," she says.

* * *

WE HAVE only been talking for about ten minutes when the chime of an incoming e-mail interrupts the conversation. With apologies, she begs for five minutes to reply. Five minutes become ten, and then fifteen, as more and more requests for her time and attention come in.

While running a multinational corporation is obviously a full time job, this seems excessive—even for someone with a plate currently as full as Lena Luthor's.

Haltingly, Lena explains. There is not a single business transaction that goes on at L-Corp without getting her personal seal of approval. And this goes far beyond the signing of contracts: no design is okayed, no consultant is hired, no memo is drafted and no business expense is charged without her explicit say-so.

This is the price, she says, of fixing what her family broke. The daunting amount of undelegated work—and even larger amount of paperwork—this policy requires of her doesn't seem to faze Lena.

"The eyes of the world are on me, and rightly so. There's no way of telling how deep into this company the poison of my family's prejudice has spread—so everything must be examined with the greatest scrutiny. If I'm to be audited and investigated annually, the least I can do is be confident that I have nothing to hide."

If there's any suspicion of Cadmus loyalists, wouldn't the safer thing be to fire everyone and start over?

Lena looks deeply troubled at the suggestion. "Then I'd be accusing everyone who works for me of exactly the same thing the world's accused of me—being guilty by association. We employ tens of thousands at L-Corp, all over the nation and even abroad; I won't let them be punished for mistakes my brother and mother made. I won't tell you they're all innocent. There have been multiple occasions where I've had to let people go, or even contact the authorities, based on discoveries I made through my screening process. But that's how I know the system works."

By making sure everything goes through her, though, isn't Lena putting an awful lot of faith in her own moral compass? Acting as a monolith, a single voice meting out her own brand of justice?

"Isn't that what all CEOs do?" Lena asks. Her thoughtful look transforms into a smirk. "Isn't that what Supergirl does?"

Touché.

"It took a long time for me to be able to trust my own decisions," Lena admits after a moment. "I understand that it will take longer still for the public to. But that fear isn't an excuse not to do the right thing."

There is, of course, another option—Lena could have sold the company, and hoped it would do better in the hands of someone else _._ Few would have blamed her for trying to move on entirely.

Lena considers it. "It honestly never occurred to me," she says, chuckling. "I suppose that makes me a Luthor after all."

When Lena finally concedes to leaving the office, it is past midnight. For the first time all week, her inbox is empty.

Her phone buzzes with a new e-mail before we reach the elevator.

* * *

FRIDAY MORNING, I meet Lena for breakfast at a café by the office.

"I've never done this before," she admits with a small smile as we sit down.

Had… breakfast?

"Gone out to a restaurant like this, before work. Business lunches, sure, but—I don't know. It feels like playing hooky."

For the record, it is 6:15 AM. The L-Corp security guards won't even open the doors to the building for another 45 minutes.

She asks me if I've read any good books lately. Before I can bring up that I'm the one meant to be asking the questions, she takes no less than three books out of her purse. She explains that she likes to have a few in rotation—of various sizes and genres, as well as one on her tablet for emergencies—and that she's in need of good fiction recommendations.

I notice the book at the bottom of the pile. Unlike the others, which are pristine, this one is well-worn around the edges and shaggy with tape flags. Noticing my eye, she pulls it out sheepishly: _The Catcher in the Rye._ It looks like a favorite.

"Oh, not mine," she says, her nose wrinkling in distaste. "Lex's. He lent me this copy once and I threw it at his head, I thought it was so pretentious. But now…"

Before Lena can tell me what "now" entails, her phone interrupts our discussion, as is starting to become a theme—but for once, it's not work related at all. Rather, it is a text from a friend, Winn Schott, Jr., begging Lena to take him as her team partner in Wayne Industries' upcoming Trivia for Charity competition. The press release announcing Lena's participation went live last night, and he appears to have just woken up to the news.

Schott, a former CatCo Worldwide Media employee, is the son of Winslow Schott, also known colloquially as 'the Toyman:' the bomber who killed six bystanders in an attempt on the life of Chester Dunholtz in the early 90s. Lena met Schott under the stage at an L-Corp gala during a hold-up last fall; the two collaborated on a makeshift device that neutralized the thieves' technology, and have maintained a friendship ever since.

"It's nice to talk to someone who can understand your fears without you needing to explain them," Lena says, in as dignified a manner as one can when one's phone keeps lighting up with additional texts. "We've both seen darkness in our families up close—and we've both dedicated our lives to trying to shine light instead. It's been… very validating, getting to know Winn."

Does that mean she'll take him on as her trivia buddy?

"I'm not sure. Clark Kent is last year's reigning champion, isn't he? I'll need someone who can hold their own against him." She beams at me, guileless. "Know anyone like that?"

No one in this restaurant knows that Clark Kent is my cousin, but Lena still wins in the end—I'm sure one of you will find her joke funny.

* * *

AFTER BREAKFAST, we head down in the L-Corp labs.

She moves with ease between the workstations, the safety goggles strapped to her face removing some of the impenetrable air of professionalism she projects—making her look more like the twenty-nine year old she actually is. There is not a single scientist, tech or intern in this room Lena does not know by name. Each of their projects is familiar to her on sight; she asks questions so detailed and specific, I'd have thought she had studied up on the blueprints before we arrived. Only before we arrived, Lena was having a frittata across the street.

But then, her ease with the scientific division of L-Corp makes sense with her background. Suprisingly, Lena has not always seen herself as a businesswoman. For many years, it was taken as a given that running LuthorCorp would be Lex's birthright—and that Lena would stay behind the scenes.

"Three years ago, these labs—or rather, their equivalents in our Metropolis office—were my home. I miss it, which is why I try to get down here at least twice a week. I always preferred research and development to corporate maneuvering. My graduate degree is in electronic engineering."

Three years ago, of course, the vast majority of what was coming out of LuthorCorp's labs were paramilitary anti-alien technology that Lex used in his vendetta against the Man of Tomorrow.

"It's funny you should call Superman that," Lena says, though she sounds anything but amused. "Lex could never tolerate that name… I think Lois Lane coined it?" (She did.) " _Man of Steel_ , he could understand. Steel is unfeeling, it's cold. It's the opposite of human. So Lex called him that constantly. But to be the man of tomorrow… I think my brother always wanted that title for himself. I think he felt he deserved it."

In bringing up her brother, she has nearly talked around my implied question: did she ever design weapons?

"No. Never," she insists.

Some have said that it is hard to believe that Lena had no idea what was going on right under her nose for all of that time. That even if she wasn't complicit, at the very least she turned a blind eye.

"Am I my brother's keeper?" Lena quips, then deflates. "Looking back, I suppose there were signs. Lex always kept me exclusively on our smaller, more domestic products. But remember: that's what my academic background was. Outside of a class or two, I'd never touched weapons engineering, or anything like it. I thought… I thought he was just trying to make sure I'd shine, by putting me in the best position to succeed."

Throughout the second half of her answer, Lena's assistant—Jessica Hoang—has been trying to get her attention. Lena excuses herself; as she and Ms. Hoang exchange apparently intense words in the corner of the room, I take the opportunity to take in the atmosphere of the lab. You would never know, from stepping into this room, that the wife of the company's founder is on trial for crimes against humanity, or that its previous CEO is serving thirty-two consecutive life sentences; despite all odds, the L-Corp offices are filled with a pervasive sense of unmistakable optimism.

I ask one of the senior engineers, who prefers to remain anonymous, what it's like having Lena as a boss.

"I used to come into board meetings to find Lionel had brought her with him—this little thing, scabby at the knees, sitting in the corner coloring in her coloring book. And every once in a while, he'd ask her to do a calculation and she would—just like that. Never even looked up from her crayons. You can't teach smarts like that. I knew then that I'd follow her anywhere… because she'd clearly know where she was going."

It seems that everyone at L-Corp has a story like this. Longtime staff members talk about watching Lena grow up, about legacies, about her brilliance. New hires talk about how she put them at ease during interviews, about how good the health plan is, about how they know that if they're at work, then Lena's at work, too. Several women, over the course of my time shadowing Lena, approach me separately to explain how when Lena heard what they were making at their last jobs, or even under her brother, she doubled their salary on the spot. One intern tells me about the time Lena fetched a screwdriver from a supply closet and helped him dismantle a vending machine when it ate his dollar, trapping his Bugles against the glass.

"There is _nothing_ I wouldn't do for Lena Luthor," he vows, and I believe him.

Before long, Lena returns with apologies—something had needed her attention, and it simply couldn't wait.

Another work crisis?

Lena shakes her head. "Death threat," she says, as casually as you or I might say _lunchtime_ or _weather report._

* * *

WE TOUR the lab a little longer, Lena showing off designs so cutting edge that descriptions cannot be included in this article without violating my NDA. As of now, L-Corp has several patent applications on public record—including a voice-activated home security system, software apps for drones, and, as previously reported, a device that is said to be able to detect non-humans—but Lena says the future of the company lies somewhere beyond what they currently call 'self-defense technology.'

"I think that there's a lot of fear out there about what technology can do—how it's responsible for weakening interpersonal communities and how it can't be trusted. Nobody likes to feel surveilled. But for me, technology—science, engineering—these were the things that gave me the tools I needed to understand my world. To actually connect with it. In the coming years, you can expect to see L-Corp's attentions shift more toward making STEM accessible and relatable."

And in the meantime, she's putting the company's money where her mouth is. In the past month alone, L-Corp's largest charitable donations have been to the county public schools—funding initiatives to build new science labs, replace outdated textbooks, and give laptops to low-income students.

"My brother's actions were unforgivably violent and ignorant, but… at the core of it, he thought he was fulfilling the company's purpose: contributing to the advancement of the human race. I'd like to think that we're finally returning to that original mission statement."

We're about to part ways when it happens—for once, Lena isn't the hottest story in town, death threats notwithstanding. Supergirl is due to take the stand today in the Cadmus trial, and I can't be in two places at once.

As Lena is in the middle of offering me the use of her company driver, an explosion rocks the lab floor.

(There are some that have criticized the fact that Lena has not attended every day of the trial's proceedings. Watching as she charges through the smoke, stepping on the wreckage of one of her own designs to make sure her employees are okay, it seems more surprising to me that she's been able to attend at all.)

I stay long enough to confirm that everyone is safe, and that this was a typical lab accident—not the promised attempt on Lena's life. "Just a miscalculation," Lena promises. "And since all the math went through me, it was probably my mistake."

When I leave, Lena is taking apart a smoldering piece of machinery with her bare hands; her manicured fingers becoming blackened with soot and oil, tangled in wire and twisted clockwork gears.

* * *

BY SOME twist of fate, I return to Lena's office that night just in time to see Supergirl touch down on her balcony. It seems we both wanted to check in with her after a long day at the courthouse.

We find Lena asleep at her desk—the parts of the device that exploded that morning spread out before her. I make to tell Supergirl about the death threat, but there's no need: the letter itself is open on Lena's desk right next to the broken device, the collage of magazine cut-outs spelling out a litany of hate. This particular missive expresses doubt that Lena has truly turned her back on her mother—insinuates that Lena is playing both sides, and that she'll pay for it.

("Frankly," Lena says later, "getting death threats from non-family members is something of a refreshing change.")

Supergirl clears her throat, gently but crystal clear, and Lena jerks awake.

It feels like I'm not even here, for all that seems to silently pass between them. Supergirl asks if she can speak with "Ms. Luthor" privately, only to then take Lena out on the balcony—letting me have the office to myself. They converse in front of a fully transparent but regretfully sound-proof window.

Looking at these two women, framed against the night sky, it is almost hard to remember that they are two of the most powerful people in the country. Going by body language, they don't come off as titans or leaders—just friends, catching up after a rough week.

Ironically, it's not the wailing of some distant siren calling Supergirl away that brings their conversation to an end; it's the ringing of Lena's office telephone. Lena seems mortified when she finds me still sitting on her couch, showering me in apologies for wasting the evening. I assure her it's still been productive—not a stretch.

As I walk out, I hear her pick up.

"Lena Luthor. What can I do for you?"

* * *

SUPERGIRL OFFERS to fly me home, "so I can avoid the cab fare"—as if I'd turn her down. As we lift off, I gain a newfound respect for the staff at the _Daily Planet_ ; maintaining editorial distance while being cradled in the arms of a preternaturally strong alien requires every ounce of professionalism I have.

I ask if she'd like to give a statement about Lena for this profile.

"Of course! People never believe me when I say this, but Lena and I have become very close. I trust her completely."

 _Complete trust_ means something a little different when you're being held fifty stories up without any scientific explanation as to why you're not falling. It's an affecting statement.

But the Luthor name—it really doesn't bother her?

"No more than… well. When I first got here, I struggled with the fact that people constantly compared me to my cousin. And I was lucky—I was only asked to uphold his good reputation. Lena's under all of those same pressures, but with the expectation doubled and reversed. You'd think with the bar set low, it would mean it's easy to get over, but instead it's built to trip her up. I think expecting that not to be hard on her is unfair. We understand that about each other. What it's like to carry a name."

Not all of us in National City are privileged enough to have terraces that act as landing platforms, so it's a bit awkward as Supergirl shoves me gently through my own bedroom window to drop me off. Still, I press one more time. Surely there must be some underlying conflict between the Girl of Steel and the Luthor heiress. How similar could they be?

Supergirl shakes her head, smiling in a way that reminds me that she's not of Earth. She gestures to the insignia on her chest.

"Do you know what this stands for?"

Now that she's asked, it feels like a trick question, but I venture everyone's best guess: an S, for _super._

"It's not an S. Not on my planet. In my language, this letter—it means _L_. The House of El. My family."

Over Supergirl's shoulder, the neon glow of the _L_ on the L-Corp building is visible in the distance. Shining in the dark.

"Do you see?" she asks.

* * *

TWO DAYS later, I'm standing with Lena Luthor at the edge of her family's property in Napa Valley, drenched in sunshine.

She's kicked her heels off to do some stretching, cramped after the last few hours in the car. Famously afraid of flying—a phobia that has only gotten worse since her helicopter crash last year—but reluctant to drag her chauffeur out on such a long excursion over a weekend, Lena suggested we make the drive ourselves. For those wondering, Lena Luthor makes a surprisingly pleasant road trip buddy, provided you prefer podcasts to singalongs.

Despite the fact that we made the trip out specifically to tour the estate, Lena seems a little surprised when her key works.

"Home sweet home," she says, with a grimace that could almost pass for a smile.

The Luthor compound is everything you would imagine it to be: austere, remote, and impressive. Even with most of the furniture under dust sheets, giving the place a half-finished, ghostly air, it's hard not to be intimidated by the luxury.

Lena feels it, too. For her, the memories in this house are complex, and often conflicting. Though she felt she lived under constant scrutiny, this is nevertheless where she was raised by the only family she's ever really known—and where, she still maintains, she was loved by them.

"They were always explaining things to me. Not—that sounds condescending, when I say it like that, and that isn't it. Rather… there was never any doubt as to my intelligence. If Father was up late in his office working on a merger, he'd sit me on his lap and tell me how the acquisition worked. If Mother was planning an event, she would ask me for my opinions on the colors, the food, the space. And Lex… Lex opened the world up."

It takes her a moment to formulate an answer when I ask her to elaborate.

"Making ginger bread houses for Christmas became lessons in architecture and structural engineering. Jumping rope was physics; Go Fish was statistics and probability. Even when I was very small, he'd make these little jokes—' _Mother just canceled an order of forty cakes for this party. That's as many as four tens, and that's terrible.'_ He sat with me and edited every English essay I ever turned in—even did it over the phone, once I went away to school, though I'm sure he had better things to do than help his kid sister with her homework. He was always available, always challenging me. ' _Why do you like this? What makes it worthwhile?'_ He taught me to articulate my thoughts, rather than just state my opinions. He was the first person I came out to. He made me feel… limitless. Like he was."

Her smile goes sour. "But I suppose that's another way of saying he never felt the rules applied to him."

Does she miss him?

"I don't know how to answer that question. I've never visited him in prison, if that's what you mean. But I still… I'll always love him. For what he was. What he could have been."

She takes us back outside through a rear patio door, into the sunshine. The backyard, once a meticulously landscaped garden, has become overgrown and wild.

"During the trial—this is long before I met Winn, remember—I did a lot of reading, about… about other people in my position. There's quite a few of us. The left-behinds. Timothy McVeigh—the Oklahoma City bomber—he had a sister six years his junior. Jennifer. And they were incredibly close; they adored each other. So when her brother—a war veteran, her idol—recommended her books to read, she gave them a try. When he told her the American government was targeting innocent citizens, she believed him. When he asked her to lie on the phone if people came looking for him, she did. And when he asked her to mail things to him—rounds of ammunition that he couldn't buy himself—she did that, too. And why wouldn't she? He was her _brother._ "

Here, Lena pauses, overcome. She picks at her fingernails as she collects herself. "I tried calling her, once. To see if she had any wisdom to impart, any advice. Or maybe just to see if she found peace."

And?

"She never picked up. I don't know that I can blame her. In her position… maybe I'd do the same."

Three minutes later, Lena gets a call from an unknown number. Belying her statement, she answers it on the first ring.

* * *

THOUGH THE Luthor mansion has been empty since Lionel Luthor's death in 2011—Lex preferring a penthouse suite in Metropolis and Lillian (it is now known) going underground to create Project Cadmus—it only recently occurred to Lena that the property could be repurposed.

"For the longest time, I wanted nothing to do with it. But after moving to National City, and meeting several new friends… I realized that just because this place is haunted for me doesn't mean it can't do good for others. Of course, then I had to fight for it."

She walks me through the many steps it took for her to procure the land in her own name. All of the Luthor family's assets were frozen in response to the constant litigation, and since Lionel left the estate to Lex in his will, it had become property of the state after the massive seizure of Lex's holdings. A half-dozen government agencies, both local and federal, did full investigations on the property before they allowed it to be returned to Lena's hands.

I had to ask—did they find anything? Any secret villainous lairs, hidden passageways, or dungeons full of torture devices?

Lena smirks. "The most ominous thing they found was a cask of amontillado in the wine cellar—but that's Lex's sense of humor for you."

But soon the wine cellar, and the rest of the house with it, will be nothing but memories. Lena has scheduled a full demolition of her childhood home for next month, though she's planning on keeping the gardens, swimming pool, tennis courts and helipad. In place of the mansion, Lena is supervising construction on California's first privately-run alien safe haven. A part of President Marsdin's Alien Amnesty Act, safe havens are still rare and under-funded; only three are fully operational, with one each in Metropolis, New York, and Orlando.

She's calling it the Luthor Exclusive House for Metahumans and Extraterrestrials—or, the LEX HOME.

Her very own House of El.

"I admit, that's an act of ego on my part—naming it after him. Some have said, perhaps rightly, that invoking his name may scare off some of the people for whom we're hoping to provide safe haven. I know some are offended. But I assure you," she says with a smirk, "nobody is more offended about it than him, and that makes it feel worth it to me."

By the time this goes to print, the news about the LEX HOME will have already broken. It is easy to guess at the conversations on the horizon: not just the criticisms Lena foresees, but the whole gamut of discourse, from those skeptical of a change of heart from any Luthor to those worried that putting a safe haven in a place so famous as a Luthor mansion will only make it a target.

But right now—as we stand at the heart of the Luthor property, Lena pointing out where various LEX HOME facilities and features are to be built, I find myself stuck on her previous remark. On wanting to spite her brother so badly (or is it play a joke on him?) that she'd be willing to face so much scrutiny, just to know his response.

I ask Lena to imagine that Lex will read this profile. Is there anything she wants to say to him?

She thinks a long while before answering.

"I suppose… I suppose I'd ask him…" She smiles—helpless, perhaps, and sad, but not defeated. " _Why do you like this? What makes it worthwhile?_ "

And what about the other Lena Luthors of the world? The Winn Schotts, the Jennifer McVeighs?

This time, there's no hesitation.

"Trust yourself," she says, "trust in your own good judgment. The world won't always hand you the safety and kindness you deserve, but you can work for it. But you'll never feel like you've found it if you can't let yourself trust that your own feet got you there."

I spend the rest of the day getting the premier tour of a building that exists, as of now, only in Lena Luthor's brain.

"Do you see?" she asks.

* * *

ON OUR way back down the meandering driveway, Lena's phone buzzes. We wait, staring each other down in good-humored suspense—e-mail, or phone call?

It buzzes again, then three times. A phone call.

She puts on a smile and gives me a wink as she answers:

"Lena Luthor. What can I do for you?"

* * *

KARA DANVERS is a staff writer at CatCo Magazine. You can find her on Twitter at CatCo_Kara.


	2. Chapter 2

_The hard part was supposed to be over by now,_ Kara thinks, as she refreshes the CatCo Magazine home page for the hundredth time.

Which is untrue, she knows. Her life has been filled with hard parts—losing your whole planet tends to put that kind of thing in perspective—and yet, here she is.

She had thought, most recently, that the hard part would be telling Lena that she's Supergirl. She'd agonized over it as the Cadmus trial loomed, tortured herself with the look of betrayal she could anticipate seeing so clearly on Lena's face. So she'd put it off, and put it off, only to have Lena go and steal her thunder completely.

They'd been getting lunch on a perfectly ordinary Tuesday when a school bus had crashed right outside the restaurant. Kara had sprung up, bashed her knee on the table, realized belatedly that she hadn't feigned pain, and looked over at Lena in a panic only for Lena to say "Forgot something at the office?" as though this kind of thing happened all the time. (Granted—being friends with Kara, they did.) Lena's knowing smirk had given her away, but Kara hadn't had time to talk about it; people needed her.

Later that evening, while Kara watched video of the rescue on the news, Lena had texted _I imagine you have some paperwork for me to sign._ And that had been that.

Kara hits refresh again.

Getting paid to hang out with Lena constantly for a week may have been the highlight of Kara's (admittedly short) journalistic career so far, but of course, it came with a cost. The new hard part: figuring out how to actually write about the time she and Lena had spent together. How to articulate it, how to capture Lena in words, without sounding preachy, or gushing, or—or like Rita Skeeter, _her eyes glistening with the ghosts of her past._

And then there was the other hard part: the fear of totally undermining the whole point by including something that would make Lena look bad.

Kara still thinks of all the conversations that were left on the cutting room floor, wondering if she made the right calls. If she'd protected Lena, or just herself.

* * *

 _They're a few hours into the interview, and Kara still can't get Lena to act like a normal person._

 _Everything she says comes out stilted and rehearsed, and Kara can't blame her—she knows how important this is. But there's a reason Lena keeps abandoning their conversation to check her e-mail, and it's not really because she's truly that busy. She's terrified of being caught on the record saying the wrong thing._

 _Kara wishes Lena would stop trying to decide who she's pretending to be for this article, and just be herself._

 _But then, sometimes Lena seems to thrive on being made uncomfortable._

" _You've said in the past that your brother 'went mad,'" Kara says, reading from her notebook._ That _gets Lena's attention. "Do you really believe that?"_

" _As opposed to what?" Lena asks. There's a challenge in her voice, a defensiveness Kara doesn't think she can help._

 _Kara adjusts her glasses. "Bigotry can be a powerful motivator."_

 _Lena shrugs one shoulder—as much acquiescence as Kara's going to get. "Maybe. I don't know. There's no denying the fact that Lex has been twisted by hate. I won't say otherwise."_

" _But?"_

"… _But there are many kinds of pathologies that only emerge later in life—schizophrenia, bipolar disorder. Other people with his level of celebrity have broken the law, only to go on to get diagnoses. Now, obviously, my brother is a terrorist. Perhaps comparing him to shoplifters and paparazzi-punchers seems callous. But I—" Lena stops, takes a deep breath. Kara watches as her shoulders slump, as the mask falls away, and thinks,_ there she is. _"I remember what it was like. Watching him slip into these manic obsessions, locking himself away in his lab for hours. But no one seemed worried about it but me. So… I suppose I'll always wonder if things would be different if… if maybe someone had looked at him and, instead of thinking 'this man is evil,' had thought, 'this man needs help.'"_

 _It's obvious that_ someone _means_ Superman. _"Do you think your brother is beyond help, now?"_

 _Lena looks up at the ceiling—but if she's holding back tears, Kara can't see them._

" _I wish I knew."_

* * *

 _Kara did check in with Lena after testifying as Supergirl; that part wasn't completely made up. And she did find Lena asleep at her desk._

 _And she_ should _have woken Lena up by clearing her throat, but—_

" _Lena," she says, voice as soft and warm as she knows how to make it as she tucks a few errant strands of hair behind Lena's ear. She blushes at the way Lena instinctively leans into her touch. "Lena, hey."_

 _Lena screws her eyes shut tighter, nuzzling into Kara's hand. "Hmmm?"_

" _It's late. C'mon, you should go home. I'll fly you." The death threat is still lying face-up on the desk, taunting her. Kara tries to ignore it as Lena yawns._

" _How'd it go?" Lena asks, before reaching up and stretching, making a noise from the back of her throat that is just—is_ not _fair._

 _Kara's forgotten the question. "Um. What?"_

" _Your testimony. How'd it go?"_

" _Fine. Unimportant. Did you figure out why the thing blew up?"_

" _Why it blew up, yes. How to fix it… no."_

 _Eventually—with more effort, frankly, than it should ever take to convince anyone to leave their office—Kara had finally talked Lena into letting her fly Lena home. And they had talked about the House of El—that really did happen, too._

 _But then, so did the awkward transfer at the window._

" _Honestly, what kind of rich person_ are _you?" Kara whines, trying not to palm Lena on the ass as Lena shimmies into her bedroom window. "Get a balcony for easy access."_

" _Weird thing to say to a friend who's been getting death threats," Lena teases lightly, only Kara then spends the next half-hour checking and re-checking Lena's security system, which kind of ruins the joke._

* * *

 _They're only about a half hour into their drive back from the Luthor estate. In theory, the interview is over, but Kara's wracking her brains for any last minute questions she might be able to use to round out the piece._

" _You might as well go ahead and say whatever it is that's on your mind," Lena laughs, side-eyeing her from the driver's seat. "I can practically hear you thinking."_

" _Oh, no, I…"_

" _It's fine, Kara. Go for it."_

" _Have you ever tried to get back in contact with your birth family?" she blurts out._

 _Just like that, Lena's good mood is gone. Like fogged breath on a window. "No. I haven't."_

" _Why not?"_

 _Lena's eyes flicker away from the road, only for a moment. "Kara. You know why." She's not begging—not exactly—but she might as well be._

 _Kara fidgets, wishing she'd never brought it up. "I know but—for the record…"_

" _Ah. Well. For the_ record," _Lena says, smiling ruefully—and Kara knows, even before Lena finishes the sentence, that there's no way she'll be able to bear putting this in print—"I didn't think they'd want me. …To. Want me to."_

 _Kara doesn't ask any more questions after that._

* * *

Kara hits refresh again—still nothing.

She worked on the article harder than she's worked on anything. She'd edited it over and over again, honing the words until she could barely hear herself in the writing. Partly because that was the only way it would get published—Snapper wants things to be polished, to be objective.

But mostly because… because Lena deserves for the world to see her the way Kara does.

No, more than that— _the world_ deserves to see Lena the way Kara does. Because they're missing out.

And now is the hard part. Sitting around and waiting for the article to go live, to see how everyone will react. To see how _Lena_ will react. Kara knows most people won't bother to read the article until the magazine itself hits stands, but still—she can think of one person who may be as anxious about it as she is, and that's Lena herself.

What if Lena doesn't like it?

What if Lena _hates_ it?

Of course, the second that thought pops into her head, the website auto-refreshes. And there it is. _Her Brother's Keeper—a CatCo Magazine exclusive by Kara Danvers, photos by James Olsen._

Kara kind of wants to throw up.

And then comes the new hard part: stopping herself from obsessively badgering Lena to find out if she's read it yet. If she liked it. If she's flattered, if she's proud, if—

Kara turns off her phone to resist the temptation.

* * *

The next morning, Kara wakes to a world that's gone _up._ Hits to the CatCo Magazine website are up, L-Corp's stock is up, Kara's follower count on Twitter is up (and vocal!)… she thought she'd been prepared for the world to read her article, but jeez. She never really thought _the whole world_ would read her article.

She consoles herself with the good feedback she's gotten—the fact that Snapper even published it, the way Winn beamed at being included in it. How James had said doing photos for her had felt like the good old days at the _Planet_ with Clark. Alex's laughter (however high-pitched and panicky it may have been) when she read the fake conversation with Supergirl.

And Kara'd been feeling pretty good about deciding to give Lena space and not bother her about it, too... right up until Lena storms into the CatCo offices waving a copy of the issue, walks right up to her, and demands, "What do you have to say for yourself?"

Kara's stomach drops right down to her shoes. Lena hated it, of course she did, and now everyone in the office is watching, and—

"Can we not do this here?" Kara begs, taking Lena by the wrist and leading her, on instinct, to the abandoned half-renovated office she used to use with the boys to talk about Supergirl at work.

Lena seems a little less livid by the time they're in private, but Kara knows better than to think that means she's not mad.

"Are you avoiding me?" Lena hisses, and—oh.

"I'm not! Or, I didn't mean to, I was just—I wanted—I didn't want to pester you. About it. So."

"So you thought you'd just drop this on me and then not let me talk to you about what you've done?"

"Well when you put it like that—"

"I just. I don't understand you, Kara." All the fight goes out of Lena, just like that. She gestures uselessly with her copy of the magazine. "Is… this… really what you think I'm like?"

Kara's heart is racing, but… she meant every single word of that article. She doesn't want to take it back. She opens her mouth to try to find a response, but Lena's apparently not done yet.

"I tried to wrap my head around it, but I think—I just need you to—Kara. This article, you made me…" Lena swallows, trying to find the words. Kara stands dazzled, mesmerized by the play of muscles in Lena's jaw and throat. "…loveable."

All at once, it sinks in that they're having a very different conversation than Kara thought they were having. "Oh, Lena—no. You did that yourself. It was easy."

Lena scoffs. "I've never thought of myself as easy to love."

"Well, you are for me."

Silence.

Kara hadn't meant to say that.

She screws her eyes shut, wincing at the way her words hang in the air. Still, she can hear Lena swallow again. Hesitate.

"Kara…"

" _No,_ " Kara interrupts, because more than her own embarrassment, she can't stand the way Lena sounds right now. Quiet and defeated, like she's trying to let them _both_ down easy. Rejection is one thing—Lena doesn't feel the same, she'll get over it—but she won't let Lena be so down on herself, not now. "I don't want to hear it. Call me biased if you want, say I only wrote a nice article because I think you're amazing, but I think you're amazing because you _are._ You're so good, Lena, you're _so_ good, and I just—"

All of a sudden, everything stops. Because Lena smells like lilies of the valley—no, she _tastes_ like—no, she—

Lena Luthor is kissing her, and Kara's in sensory overload. She can feel _everything._ The individual whorls on each of Lena's fingertips where they're pressed against her cheeks—the jackhammer thrum of Lena's pulse at her neck, her wrists, her chest—her _chest_ —Kara snakes her arms around Lena's waist and holds on for dear life as her powers go haywire, because she's been kissed before but it's never felt like this. Like the cover of her pod breaking open and feeling the yellow light of the sun; a hand reaching toward her.

(Like stepping out into the world. Like coming home.)

"Kara," Lena says, again, but it's like a different word this time, the tone is so changed from before. Playful and reverent and… amused?

"Yeah?" Kara murmurs, leaning their foreheads together. Keeping her eyes closed just a little bit longer, to try to make the moment last.

"We're floating."

Kara blinks and finds that—yep. They're hovering three feet above ground. Lena's Louboutins dangle from her toes haphazardly.

"Whoops," she mutters, blushing, and sets them both back down gently. Lena doesn't step away from her when their feet touch the floor, though—if anything, she leans in closer. "So… I guess you liked it?"

Lena laughs, incredulous. "The world's most magical first kiss?"

"No, the _article,_ " Kara grumbles, but her pout doesn't remain long; Lena pecks it away impishly.

"They were both more than acceptable. In fact, I'd say they're ample reason to continue our… _exclusive_ relationship."

Kara gasps. "Was that—did you just make a journalism pun?"

"Of course not."

"You did!"

"It's your word against mine. No one will ever believe you," Lena jokes breathlessly, just as caught up in the moment as Kara is, and it's this—the teasing, the light in her eyes—that Kara had been aiming for this whole time.

All she's ever wanted since she met her is to see Lena happy.

She can't help herself. She wraps her arms around Lena, squeezing as tightly as she dares—and relishing the way Lena all but melts into her. She presses a kiss to the crown of Lena's head. "You're pretty great, you know that?"

She feels Lena burrow a little deeper into the crook of neck; feels her take a shuddering breath, feels the smile start to grow there, against her throat. Lena's quiet, when she answers.

"I do now."


End file.
